


Some Clarity

by CuteRubberBoat



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Almost no romance, F/M, a little character study, more friendship than romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuteRubberBoat/pseuds/CuteRubberBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they cuddle, they aren’t even seeing each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill from my Tumblr. English isn’t my first language, but [noo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noo/pseuds/noo) was kind enough to beta-read this piece. Any mistakes still around are on me, since I keep changing things.

The first time they cuddle, they aren’t even seeing each other. It had been a couple of weeks until McCoy was ready to wake up Kirk, long days of what seemed to be an endless battery of exams, some of which Carol was vaguely aware existed, perfecting a serum made from a murderer’s blood and a doctor’s brilliance and what could be only described as indomitable will. The man was utterly exhausted, hooked on one stim shot after another, and she herself felt like keeping her eyes open was the hardest task ever, because, between debriefings; she and Mr. Spock had helped McCoy as much as they could. Kirk being alive was mostly on McCoy – or all on him, depending on how one looked at it, but Carol had grabbed the opportunity to be part of the process. Anything to keep her mind out of the things  her father, no, Admiral Marcus, had done, maybe even mitigate some of the damage.

When the final test on Kirk is done and redone, when there are no doubts that the Captain is on the road to complete recovery, they can try to breathe again. She finds herself sitting on the couch in McCoy’s temporary office at Starfleet Medical Headquarters.

She has no real reason to be there, except that she wants to. Her father’s funeral is in a few days – a mock funeral, part of Starfleet’s plans to save face and cover its failure with Section 31 and Khan. She has no strength to deal with that and she honestly doesn’t want to. The media coverage is relentless, as expected. Starfleet screwed up badly and people want justice in any shape or form they can get. Carol is in no position to be against it, either morally or intellectually. In practical terms, though, she wishes she could disappear and not face a single reporter camping outside her apartment building, nor answer another Admiral’s question about her father’s actions. She never wants to be the subject of any of that attention, ever again.

Carol Marcus just wants to vanish.

Leonard McCoy’s office is the closest thing to that at the moment.

“Your couch is nice.” She notices, tapping the soft leather under her fingers.

He raises an eyebrow at her, leaning against the edge of his desk, a PADD in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. For a moment she thinks she sees a flash of amusement in his eyes.

“You say that because you have never slept on it”.

“Have you?” Carol asks. It is a stupid question, really, one she knows the answer to, and of course she gets one of McCoy’s epic eyerolls. Before all that, before he offered his life for her, before she saved his, before traitors and madmen and dead heroes, it would have annoyed her to be dismissed in such way, but now it is almost endearing, in a comforting way. Now she knows McCoy cares. Carol has learned to appreciate that. She has learned to appreciate the man, too, but that is another story.

He doesn’t answer her. Instead he smirks, a real good-natured smirk. McCoy is far less grumpy or ill-tempered than his reputation leads people to believe and he always treats her as an equal. Which is nothing more than expected, but still, after everything, it is nice to not be looked down because of who she is – or rather, because of who her father was.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

She crosses her ankles over the small table in front of the couch and sighs looking around. “I like your office.”

“It is not my office, and you know that”, McCoy offers kindly. Carol winces; the place was Fatima Ali’s, head of Xenobiology, killed when the sky crashed on her home in the form an uncontrolled spaceship.  It had been given to McCoy when he had just camped in the hospital during Kirk’s treatment.

“And it is not your fault”, he adds, his voice firmer, obviously anticipatingwhere her mind is going to. “So, drop it”.

“I’m  _not_ …” Carol tries to protest, but that raised eyebrow stops her. “Fine.”, She huffs. “And you should drop those stims”, she says, waving towards a couple of hyposprays on his table. “You are getting too attached to that stuff, you know that, right?”

“Carol, I’m a doctor. I’ve been using them since my second week as intern working in a hospital”, he explains, rubbing his eyes and taking a sip from the water bottle. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. Stims are not my poison”.

She cocks her head to the side, eyeing him intensely. McCoy is blunt and straight forward, and she has to wonder. “And that would be…”

“That was alcohol”, he says, unfazed, looking straight at her.

“ _Was_?” Carol asks, and his face is like an open book - a children’s book with big letters and lots of pictures, easy, so easy to read at times like this, she thinks.

“Some days are good. Some are bad”, McCoy shrugs, dropping the PADD next to her feet and crossing his arms.

“And today?”

“Jim is doing good. It is a good day”, he replies.

Something about McCoy’s answer, how he puts someone else first, annoys her in a way she cannot really place.

“Are  _you_  doing good?” Carol presses, fighting the urge to get up, grab his chin and… and she doesn’t really know. Maybe, force all the hidden truths out of him.

“No. Are  _you_?”

“No.”

“Yeah”, he says dropping next to her, his weight making a slight wave on the cushions.

It is an almost comfortable silence between them. This is one of the things she likes about McCoy, he doesn’t pry or make a fuss when he doesn’t have to. Until he does.

“They are burying my father next week”, Carol says, playing with an imaginary fabric thread on her trousers. “Not that there is anything to bury, but you know the drill. A fake funeral for a fake admiral”, she tells him, a sound escaping her throat that is half bitter laugh, half strained sob.

McCoy turns to look at her, studies her face with eyes that look more green than brown in the afternoon light coming through the large window on the opposite wall – a window that should be facing another building, but now offers a clear view of the destruction outside. Carol waits until he says something, her irritation rising fast, partly because she feels like there is something he fully grasps but she was yet to begin to comprehend.

When he finally speaks, it is not what she wants to hear. “He was your father”, he says, and she wants to scream at him that he is wrong, he was not. Her father gave her a small rocket when she was five and used to call her his princess. Admiral Marcus killed people, children included.

She opens her mouth to protest, but he interrupts her. “Look, this is none of business. I know that, okay?” McCoy sighs. “But he  _was_ your father, and denial won’t get you anywhere.”

There is a deep hiss stuck in her throat, and she feels like punching something - or someone -, badly. Instead she clenches her jaw, one hand pushing down the seat, while the other balls into a fist resting on her thigh.

“Hey”, he says, taking her hand in his and unclenching her fingers carefully. His skin is warm and he is gentle, she notes. “I mean well.  All this rage and self-blame? Taking responsibility for things that you weren’t remotely part of? This crap is going to eat you alive, either you want it or not.”

“Fuck, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Carol quips, a little harder than she intended to. She cringes at the sound of her own voice unleashing at him, but he doesn’t even bat an eye or let go of her hand, his thumb massaging her palm while the other fingers do the same on the back. It bothers her that he doesn’t sugarcoat his words yet tries to soothe her - these past two weeks, she has learned a lot of things about the man, and when it is about taking care of people, there is only way for him, Leonard McCoy’s way. It is comforting, but also very infuriating. “I  _knew_  he was into something, and I could have done something. I should have done something and you know that”, she blurts out, a bit exasperated.

“What  _I_  know is that your father was a Starfleet Admiral, a high skilled military man who came up from the ranks because he was brilliant at what he did”, he points out. “He was at the top of the chain food, deep into Section 31, and began a conspiracy right under half the Admiralty’s nose and fooled people like Barnet, Bella Juma and Pike. He almost made it, Carol, and that says a lot about what you could have done. Stop blaming yourself”, McCoy insists, squeezing her hand and letting it go.

She feels something twist in her chest at the obvious truth and it hurts - she also misses the comfort of his touch, but chooses to not deal with that. McCoy isn’t telling her anything new.  She is clever enough to realize her father outsmarted her in many, many ways, cunning or not. It is hard, though, to accept there wasn’t more she could have done.

“What should I do then? Pretend he didn’t do the things he did?” Carol asks, the barest trace of defiance still lingering on her voice.

“Mourn the man he was. Not the man he became”, McCoy states, as if things are that simple.

Carol groans; he can’t possible get it. “I bet your father never disappointed you”, she remarks, regretting her words the moment the pain cross his face and eyes, lips tighten in a thin line.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I …” she starts, but he just shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about that”, McCoy brushes her off – for her sake or his she isn’t sure. There is a beat and then he speaks again. “No, my father didn’t disappoint me. But, just like you, albeit in a very different way, I was disappointed with myself, and it absolutely crushed me”, he explains, drawl thickening, and it is crystal clear that the little he is sharing is extremely personal, even though he doesn’t elaborate.

He composes himself and nods at her. “Give me some credit here, because I have been there. Go talk to someone before you are deep down in a hole without a rope or a set of stairs or even a magic carpet to take you out of there”.

“A magic carpet?” she repeats, raising a brow.

“Oh, shut up, will you? Just talk to someone”, he says without any hint of malice, sounding drained, nonetheless. He is clean-shaved, probably for the first time since Kirk died, looks good in those Starfleet Medical scrubs, but could use a few nights of real sleep in a real bed.

“I’m talking to you”, Carol challenges, but McCoy just roll his eyes again. “Don’t you have a Ph.D in Psychology?”, she insists and when he gives her a  look she smirks. “Christine told me”.

He groans, rubbing his neck. “I’m an aviophobic who works in an oversized tincan in outer space, what does that says about my mind?”

“That you conquered your fears?” she deadpans and that almost elicits a smile from the man, the corners of his mouth turning up slowly. “Really, did  _you_  talk to someone when you were in that hole without that magic carpet?”

“Yeah, I had daily chats to my old friends Jack and Macallan”, McCoy lists, “And let’s not forget good old’ P’omal.”

“P’omal?”

“Little unknown Accorian brandy, best thing in this galaxy and the next two.”

 _Of course_ , she thinks. “And when that didn’t help…”

“I enlisted”, McCoy declares, solemnly, and he is so serious, yet the teasing is evident in the gleam in his eyes. “Yeah, that was stupid. Told ya’. That Ph.D? _Waste of time_ ”, he grimaces in self-depreciation, but there is a smile already on his face.

The next thing Carol knows, they are both laughing so hard that it racks their bodies and make her sides hurt. It is a revelation, the way McCoy’s face lights up, the contagious nature of his laugh, vibrant and whole, and how come she had never noticed these dimples before?  _Christ, he is attractive_ , she thinks. She feels her cheeks warm at the thought, bets she is flushing pink, but one look at his face, all red from laughing, and she knows she is safe.

They chuckle for some time and fall comfortably quiet, heads resting on the back of the couch. Carol takes a deep breath, and turns to McCoy, watches his profile for a few seconds and the more she looks at the man at her side the more she itches for an answer she didn’t know she needed.

“Why?”

“Why what?” he blinks at her, confused.

Carol bits her lower lip, but he gaze doesn’t stray from his face. “Why do you care?”

 “Why do I…?” McCoy asks incredulously, and she can pinpoint the exact instant his perplexed frown turns into an insulted scowl, as if she had badmouthed his favorite aunt, then  kicked his dog and finally trashed his Medbay on the  _Enterprise_. “Are you  _kidding_  me? You are in  _pain_  and I’m a _doctor_. Do you really expect me to sit and watch while you  _suffer_? Let me tell you something, darlin’, it will be a very cold day in hell when I allow you or anyone else for the matter to drown in misery”.

McCoy’s accent flares up at warp speed and Carol _almost_ recoils – from the vehemence and fire behind his glare or the shame of thinking he could be anything less than a doctor. How can she be sure? Almost being the key word there.

“That is why you care?” she pushes through narrowed eyes, certain that his patients don’t get to learn so much about McCoy as part of the healing process.

“Yes. But you saved my life, too, if it makes you feel better”, he says, and there is so much honesty showing on his face that she cannot be mad at him – if not, because his first concern back then had been her safety, not his. There is something else she cannot quite pick up in his expression and not being able to figure that out annoys her a lot.

McCoy doesn’t say more and just look at the window framing the sunset outside. Carol follows his gaze, wishing she could have one of those epiphany induced moments people talk about. Instead, she just sighs. “Give me some time, okay?”

It takes an awful long time until McCoy speaks again, so softly she can barely hear it.  “Just… let it go. Your father and Khan have done enough harm. Don’t let them do more”.

“And what have we done, Leonard?” Carol whispers, laying her head on his shoulder, not caring if they are not close friends, if they barely know each other, if the man has a crapload of more important stuff to do than babysit a grownup scientist who should be able to get it together.

“We survived”, he answers, and she closes her eyes, too tired to think about it any longer.

When Carol wakes up, it is night outside. She isn’t sure how much time has passed or how it happened, but they had moved on the couch and she is snuggled firmly against McCoy, legs folded on the seat, head laying somewhere between his chest and the crook of his neck. This close she can see every freckle and mole on his skin, notices the thin lines around his eyes and the tiny scar on his chin. McCoy smells good, but even asleep he looks so weary, faint dark circles under his eyes. The arm around her is solid, though, and he is warm, and she feels safe for the first time in weeks. For now that is all she needs and she closes her eyes again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love. Hate it, love it, just let me know, and thank you very much for reading.


End file.
